Mouse

Last month I had writer’s block. Horrible thing to have when you love writing. So, I got a bath, listened to some sad boi chello music and tried my hardest to come up with a concept. Something outside of my normal scope of writing to Sparta kick my brain into shape. This is what came out of me, right onto the paper. not a beat was missed. I didn’t even have time to stop and think. It’s fucking weird, but I really am fond of it, even if it’s just because it put a stop to my crappy block and allowed me to write again.

Weird how these things work. It’s called Mouse.

Mouse

Mouse didn’t know which way to look; the whole galaxy had opened before him, a vast expanse of deep colour. Mouse seemed frozen, suspended in some sort of magic. Sounds seemed to have drained from the world and left it silent. Reaching for his rapier, his hand grasped at nothing. He felt silly for a moment, you can’t fight space with a sword, but still, he was alarmed to find it was missing. He looked around, awkwardly, yet his body seemed to want to follow suit; his head would turn, but only so far. He took a deep breath and felt nothing, just his mouth hopelessly gasping for air that want there. 

His eyelids lowered, and he thought of home. He imagines the long rolling hills and trees, and green fields. It wasn’t an image like a photograph; it was moving, no, he was moving. He soared above the ground, only feet from the long grass. The hills passed by, and the trees parted as he shot like a bullet towards his target.

As he shot forward, in front of him was a little white house, growing as he approached. His seed dropped to nothing in an instant, and the house came into full view. It was a stunning cottage with perfectly rendered walls, perfectly nestled in the base of a valley, the sort of valley you would see on postcards. The chimney was smoking, and he knew there was a log on the fire. He took a big, deep breath, taking in the homely scent of burning olive wood. The house had a sturdy porch made from big, thick beams covered in dark ivy that curled into an arch framing the front door. He breathed again, this time deeper, filling his lungs with the crisp, cold air of the valley. 

There was a loud clunk as the latch of the front door opened, and a mouse walked out. This mouse looked old. He closed the door behind him and pottered down the garden, holding a mug of steaming hot tea in one hand and a notebook in the other. He found a place on an old bench that looked down the valley and set the notebook down on the bench next to him. He put the mug to his lips and sipped the hot tea. 

Mouse hovered in the air, and for a moment, he just watched, his eyes locked on the old mouse. Mouse longed with all his heart to taste the hot tea for himself, to see down his valley from that exact spot on the bench, but he couldn’t. 

At that moment, the earth moved suddenly. It felt like a great hook had attached to the back of his jerkin and snapped him back as fast as he had flown down the valley. Before him, he helplessly watched the same hills and trees fly past him in the opposite direction, all of them rushing towards the old mouse as he flew through the air towards the unknown.

There was a flash of purple, a crystalline crack of lightning and the green hills and trees disappeared. Mouse found himself suspended in space again, his lungs empty, staring at the known and unknown worlds before him in an ever-expanding universe, sucking at cold space, unable to breathe.

There was another ear-splitting crystalline crack, a flash of purple and mouse flew backwards once again. There was no acceleration; he just went from stationary to ripping through the air at great speed backwards. When the purple subsided, he sucked backwards and immediately slammed into the dry red earth. There was no impact. Again, it just felt like he had gone from flying faster than he had ever moved to lying on his back in the red dust. There was a figure standing over him looking down, but he couldn’t make out who it was. He squinted, but his vision was blurry. Then he felt it; there was a boot on his neck pressing down, and when he tried to draw air into his lungs, he still couldn’t breathe. He reached for his rapier and again, nothing, just an old leather belt loose where his sword used to hang.

 Mouse reached forwards and grabbed whatever he could, his hands met medium-length fur, and he latched on and pulled down as hard as he could. Mouse brought his head up to meet the figure and he felt his face meet the face of another with great force. Pain bloomed from his nose as he felt the boot pull off his neck and he took his first great deep breath in what felt like an age. His lungs filled and Mouse could feel the power coursing through him as he started to pant, breathing heavier and deeper, his body grateful for something he had taken for granted for too long. 

As he gathered his senses and scrambled to his feet he took stock of the situation. There was a fox with one knee on the ground, blood pouring from his hand that was cupped over his nose. 

The fox flicked the bloody hand towards Mouse with a loud snarl. As he did so, the blood whipped off his hand it snapped and turned into long shards of blood red glass that were flying towards mouse-like daggers. Mouse pushed off the ground and leapt up and backwards, leaving the fox and the and the blood glass far below, he heard them shatter on the ground below him before he landed 20 spans from where the fox crouched. 

The fox yelled but the mouse couldn’t make out what he was saying. He scanned the dead trees and red landscape, looking for something very dear to him. The fox pressed his hands against the dusty ground and looked up at where mouse was standing. With a snap he leapt forwards towards mouse. As the fox drew closer, he could see the mouse was pointing at him, dead still, his face calm, blood making a thin line from his nose to his chin. 

As the distance between them closed, the mouse did not move, he just stood, pointing, string, concentrating. 

It dawned on the fox all too late what was happening; his head snapped round 180 degrees, his body twisting round to meet his gaze, his hands thrown up in front of his face in vain. Mouse’s Rapier tip sank through the outstretched hand of the fox, sliding all the way in, the tip meeting the fox’s neck cutting of the shrill scream of pain. The sword only stopped moving when the beautiful, twisted steel hilt pinned the fox’s hand to his neck. The fox dropped to the floor.

Mouse walked over, put the foot of his leather boot on the forearm of the fox and pulled his sword free. It was not the wet and smooth motion he had expected; it sounded like steel on stone and the rapier blade scraped its way out before the fox cracked, the lines spreading out like spiders’ webs form the point the sword entered before the fox shattered like glass, shards and red dust covering the floor and his leather boots. 

Mouse just stood almost motionless for a moment, his body gently rose and fell as he breathed, mouse was appreciating the air in his lungs, possibly for the first time in his life.